


honey and milk under your tongue

by escherzo



Series: T4TMA 2021 [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: BDSM, Hand Feeding, Kneeling, M/M, Nipple Play, No Apocalypse, Oral Sex, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, ace subtype: sex favorable, not quite petplay but the Vibes are there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Good?” Martin asks, into the silence, and Jon says, slow, like the word is a great weight on his tongue, “Yes.”They don’t talk about it, but the next time they’re on the couch, they end up in the same arrangement: Jon kneeling at Martin’s feet, soft and small and content, Martin’s hand in his hair.(T4TMA Day 4: BDSM)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: T4TMA 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090997
Comments: 16
Kudos: 189
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	honey and milk under your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> okay! welcome to day 4, which is only about 10% less soft than day 3. general notes: most of the negotiation takes place offscreen, because i've never written a full negotiation scene that didn't feel clunky, but it's mentioned that it occurs. assume the things brought up have been addressed. jon has a physical action to use in place of a safeword if he goes nonverbal, and it gets used at the end for him to tap out when he's had enough but doesn't come up in conversation prior to that. jon and martin are both trans guys here & jon likes having his chest played with, which some people very much like and some people very much don't, so if that's something you're not going to do well with reading i'd recommend you give it a pass.
> 
> words used for jon: cock/cunt/chest (also "the soft curves of him", once), words used for martin: clit/the rest not mentioned

Jon is so easy to touch now. Martin is still getting used to that; for the first few years Martin knew him, Jon was full of nervous energy and prickliness and a back so straight it looked like it would hurt. It faded, bit by bit, as the gray in his hair spread and the scars peppered over his skin began to increase in number. The affected, clipped voice smoothed out into something softer and quieter. He started curling up on chairs like an overgrown cat with his knees tucked to his chest. He swayed into the slightest brush against him, his whole body yearning for touch. When he brought Martin out of the Lonely, it was with a hand clasped carefully around his and the warmth of his body so close it was hard to take a step, and he has been seeking out Martin’s touch ever since. 

Even now, it still sticks with Martin, that suddenly he is _allowed_ to do this. That he can reach out and stroke Jon’s hair and instead of flinching away, Jon will press into his hand and make soft little contented noises and cuddle up closer, like he wants nothing more than to blanket himself across Martin’s body. He loves being close more than anything, and he takes to praise so easily, and it is so hard for Martin to not let his thoughts wander because of it.

When Martin was younger, he used to try to be submissive. He liked the idea of it, the power involved, liked having his hands pinned, but liked most of all that he could just lay back and be touched and whether or not he came was not up to him. It was easier. He didn’t have to think about his own body or the way it looked or the way someone’s hands on him felt, because how he felt was someone else’s problem, and he could usually talk them into a blindfold, besides. It was probably not, in retrospect, the healthiest thing, but he found himself drawn to it anyway. 

That idea of power still lingers in him, although in a very different way now. He watches the way Jon sways into his touch and thinks about easing Jon gently down to kneel at his feet. Of Jon’s head resting in his lap. Of getting to be the one that pins Jon down and touches every part of him until his moans fade out into overstimulated desperation and half-formed words. Of getting to tease him and mark him up until his eyes water with tears and then hold him close, after. They’ve had sex a handful of times. Each time it’s been gentle, exploratory, mapping out each other’s bodies--where they should touch, where they shouldn’t, and Jon doesn’t look at Martin with lust in his eyes, but when he touches Martin there is love there, and trust, and the joy of simple human contact, and Martin finds that that’s every bit as good. It seems like too much to ask to want _more_ from him.

In the end he doesn’t have to ask. One evening, instead of settling in beside Martin on the ancient couch in the safehouse and curling up under the blankets, Jon slides to his knees like it’s nothing, like he has no idea what it does to Martin to see Jon at his feet like this, and rests his head against Martin’s leg. Martin’s hand goes to his hair reflexively, and Jon makes a deeply contented noise and presses into it, letting Martin massage his scalp until he’s loose and pliant. It’s soft and comfortable, somehow, like they’ve been doing this for ages, and it makes such fierce heat curl through Martin that it nearly hurts. Jon is _his_ , some small, greedy part of his mind says. His to keep on his knees and keep safe. His to touch. 

“Good?” Martin asks, into the silence, and Jon says, slow, like the word is a great weight on his tongue, “ _Yes_.” 

They don’t talk about it, but the next time they’re on the couch, they end up in the same arrangement: Jon kneeling at Martin’s feet, soft and small and content, Martin’s hand in his hair. There’s a small, half-forgotten bag of crisps from earlier tucked into the side of the couch beside Martin, and, heart thundering in his throat, he plucks one out and places it in the palm of his hand, holding it out for Jon. He’s never _done_ this, but when Jon nuzzles gently against his hand and then takes it into his mouth, a quick, teasing little lick to Martin’s palm as he withdraws, it feels right. Natural. Like this is what they should always have been doing. 

“Jon,” Martin says, his eyes going very wide, and something powerful and heady rushes through him at the trust Jon is placing in him. Letting himself be small and vulnerable and lovely, kneeling at Martin’s feet, eating out of his hand. At some point, they need to talk about it. Need to feel out where the boundaries of it are. But for now Martin just reaches for another crisp and holds it out again, and the two of them slowly, methodically go through the rest of the bag, Martin’s other hand still stroking Jon’s hair softly as he coaxes him to open up and eat a little more, bit by bit. He’s wet and aching, his heart in his throat as Jon licks away the last of the crumbs on his hand, but it feels secondary to the sheer, overwhelming rush of power that thrums through him, taking his breath away with the _rightness_ of it. 

*

The rest, after that, is easy. Little bits of negotiation tucked in between chores and statements and the slow, painstaking process of making the safehouse a proper home that will last them past the year. Jon admits that, if things hadn’t gone south, Georgie would have gotten a collar for him, and Martin can see nothing but the heavy weight of one around his neck for days even as some small, dark part of him burns with jealousy at the thought of anyone _else_ getting to have Jon this way. Martin pushes past the ever-present curling shame he carries with him about it and says into the silence of a late night, “I think about you asking me to hurt you, sometimes,” and Jon twines his fingers with Martin’s and whispers back, loving and fierce, “ _Yes_.” They reach out for each other to touch more than they ever have; Jon spends his evenings curled up at Martin’s feet with Martin’s hand in his hair. 

Jon looks over one morning, halfway through washing out a pan, and asks, casual as anything, “Should I call you anything?”

“Hm? Call me what?” Martin asks, still drying the plate Jon handed him a moment ago. It’s a quiet morning, and the sun is shining in through the front window, lighting Jon up in crimson and gold, and he looks so lovely Martin is having trouble focusing. 

“Like, ah. Sir. Master. That sort of thing.” 

Martin drops the plate. Mercifully, it does not break. 

(They settle on ‘I’ve always felt a little weird about titles, but if you want to in the moment, it could be nice?’) 

*

It’s a quiet night. Martin and Jon are both tucked onto opposite sides of the couch, reading, and once in a while, Jon will Know a snippet of what is in Martin’s book and will smile at the same time Martin does. The blankets are piled in the middle on top of both of their feet. It’s cozy. Domestic. Martin feels deeply content in a way that he hasn’t in a long time, properly settled in his space and his body; there’s nothing coming to trouble them here for now, and he has Jon all to himself in this little pocket of peace. He looks at Jon, at the long, smooth line of his neck, and thinks again, as more of an idle thing than anything else, about a collar fit around Jon’s neck, buttery-soft leather with just enough give that he could fit a finger underneath it and _tug_ if he wanted to. 

“Distracted?” Jon asks without looking up, and Martin flushes, caught out. His book is the second in the series, and not nearly as good as the first, and so if his mind wanders a little. Well. He can hardly be blamed for that.

“Mm,” Martin agrees, and tries to pay attention to the words on the page again, and then Jon reaches for a scrap of paper on the end table as a bookmark and closes his book. The snap of it seems very loud in the stillness of the room. Martin looks up, and Jon raises his eyebrows in a way that Martin thinks is meant to be _meaningful_ , but mostly just involves scrunching his forehead up in a funny way. God, he loves this man. He gets the message clear enough, though. 

He puts down his book, too, and straightens up. Bundles up the blanket between them and, keeping his eyes on Jon as he does it, places it at his feet. He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. Trying to get into the right headspace for this. It’s always a little awkward at first, until it hooks him. 

“Get on your knees for me,” he says softly, gesturing to the pile of blankets at his feet, and Jon takes a shaky breath and nods, sliding off the couch and crawling forward two steps until he can curl up there. He kneels, hands clasped in front of him, head tipped back, and waits, and it makes Martin ache with want. “Good boy,” he says, and Jon shudders. He looks up at Martin with plaintive eyes, already going a bit glassy, and Martin reaches out both hands to run them through Jon’s hair. He massages Jon’s scalp slowly, rubbing at all of the spots where Jon’s tension builds up--behind his ears, along his hairline, and Jon slumps further and further against the couch, all the energy draining out of him. Martin wishes Jon had given him more warning; he could have found something to feed Jon like this. 

Hm. There’s a thought. 

“Jon,” Martin says, and the noise of assent Jon makes is not a word at all. “Go into the kitchen and bring me something to feed you.” He runs a hand down the curve of Jon’s spine, down to cup his arse, and Jon holds perfectly still until he’s released. Martin’s heart is pounding in his chest. 

“You can stand,” he says, when he realizes Jon makes to crawl there, and Jon shakes his head, looking up at Martin with those big, pleading eyes. “You want to crawl?” 

He nods. Sometimes, when Martin has kept him on his knees for a long time, just slowly stroking his hair or massaging his shoulders, he goes mostly nonverbal. Too deep in it to remember how to speak properly. Martin nods, feeling indulgent. He’ll let him crawl. He might spank Jon a little for it later, maybe, if he’s feeling in the mood for that sort of thing. 

Jon comes back with a small plate of fruit, cut strawberries and melon, and hands it to Martin with a little smile on his face. Martin can’t help but pull him up into a quick kiss for that as he sets the plate down next to him. Jon can be so sweet, so obedient. He just needs a firmer hand for it. “You should get out of your clothes,” he says, because he can see Jon’s eyes flicking to his shirt, like he’s not sure if he should ask or do it himself. 

When Jon folds back to the floor in front of him, he’s naked, the small, slim lines of his body on display for Martin as he kneels. The flush on his cheeks is slowly spreading and his nipples are hard, and so Martin gives him a reward for being so good, first, sliding his hands down Jon’s front to cup his chest, pinching and twisting at his nipples until Jon is making soft, plaintive little noises, fighting against the way his hips want to push forward. The soft curves of him fit so nicely in Martin’s hands, and Jon loves it so much, just like he said he would, so beautifully responsive to the slightest touch. Martin lets it go on until Jon’s squirming grows more urgent, squeezing his thighs together tight, and then finally relents; he might be a little sore tomorrow. Martin finds he likes the thought. 

Jon whines as Martin’s hands withdraw, and Martin leans down to kiss the top of his head. “I know,” he says. “Soon, okay? Turn around.” 

Martin lifts his hips to tug his pyjama pants and boxers down and sits forward, on the edge of the couch, Jon holding still between his spread legs, and Jon sways forward obediently when Martin threads his fingers into Jon’s hair and tugs him forward. He lolls out his tongue, and for a moment, Martin just grinds against his face, rubbing his clit against the slick heat of Jon’s mouth to enjoy the way he’s making a mess of Jon. 

“No hands,” he says, and wraps his calves around Jon’s back, keeping him close. Jon’s mouth is hot and wet and determined, and he’s clumsy at first, just licking uncertainly at Martin’s clit, but he’s a fast learner. Takes Martin’s clit between his lips and sucks, hard, tongue flicking at the tip, and Martin’s thighs clench around Jon’s head, his fingers tightening in Jon’s hair and _pulling_ as he groans with it. Jon’s eyes slip shut as his tongue works, his hands still clasped obediently in his lap even as his face goes redder, not stopping to come up for air, and it is all Martin can do to not squeeze his thighs around Jon’s head hard enough to hurt him. Jon keeps making these little _noises_ in between flicks of his tongue, like Martin is the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, like he could do this all day, and Martin is not going to last, but next time, he thinks, next time maybe he’ll keep Jon like this. He could tie him down to the bed and ride his face. Could just keep him on his knees like this for hours until Martin left his whole face a slick mess. 

“Good boy,” Martin gasps out, holding on tightly to Jon’s hair. “My good pet, you look so lovely like this--” The heat in him peaks all at once and he grinds against Jon’s face hard as he comes, caging him in with his body as it pulses through him. Jon doesn’t pull away, keeps sucking at Martin’s clit as he comes down, and Martin finally has to nudge him backwards, so oversensitive it almost hurts. Jon’s face is a mess, flushed and slick, and his lips have gone cherry-red, and runs his thumb along Jon’s lower lip, smiling at the way Jon’s mouth falls open a little wider at the touch. 

He doesn’t let Jon get up just yet, even though Jon is still squirming in place, a little, and his hands in his lap are clasped so tightly together Martin can see the skin going white. “You can do it,” he says, and Jon nods tightly. “Just a little longer.” He reaches for the plate Jon brought him and picks up a piece of strawberry, and when he holds it out to Jon Jon opens his mouth obediently and takes it, the juices reddening his lips further. He closes his eyes, licks his lips. Takes a long, shuddering breath, trying to get himself back under control, and when Martin gives him another piece of fruit, he opens his mouth for that too.

There are seven pieces on the plate, and so Martin lets himself savor it. The tremble in Jon’s lips as he accepts what he’s given. The way he’s fighting against his own body to hold himself still. “It’s a lot, huh,” Martin says sympathetically, stroking Jon’s hair, and he takes a little longer to pick up the next piece. “But I know you can be good for me.” 

“Please,” Jon says, the first word he’s managed since they started this. “Please.” 

“One more,” Martin says, and slowly rubs the piece of strawberry along Jon’s lips before placing it on his tongue. Jon chews it slowly and swallows it, savoring the taste, and then he looks back up to Martin, expectant, his whole body thrumming with energy. 

“Come up here,” Martin says, and Jon gets to his feet so quickly Martin can hear his knees crackle. He settles onto the couch opposite Martin, and just like that, there’s no reason to hold back anymore. He slides a hand down Jon’s front to cup his cock and leans in to fit his mouth over a nipple, teasing at it with his tongue as his hand slides down to where Jon is warm and slick and ready for him. 

Jon reaches out for him, his hands twining around Martin’s neck to keep him close as Martin slides two fingers inside his soaking wet cunt, fucking into him hard and fast as he sucks dark, bruising marks into Jon’s chest. Jon whimpers, fucking back against Martin’s fingers as they press deep and curl inside him, and he has to have been so close for so long, because one careful twist pushes him over the edge, clenching around Martin as he cries out. Martin keeps going, fucks him through it, his other hand coming up to cup Jon’s chest and twist his pretty brown nipples until they’re hard and aching, and it takes almost nothing at all to get him to come a second time, his breaths shallow and his eyes wide as the palm of Martin’s hand presses hard against his cock and rubs. 

“Jon?” Martin asks, because he could keep going, keep fucking Jon until he’s sore and exhausted with it, and Jon reaches out, still past the point of words, and gives him a quick pinch. 

“Alright,” Martin says, smiling at him. “Good boy. You did so well.” 

*

The ancient, rickety bathtub in the bathroom is just big enough for Jon, and so Martin bundles him into it, filling the tub with warm water and bubbles and a little bottle he picked up the last time he was in town to make the water smell nice, and Jon sighs, entirely content, as Martin starts to massage shampoo into his scalp. 

“Did, um. Did you have a good time?” Martin asks, because the glassiness in Jon’s eyes is starting to fade, and he thinks maybe Jon will be capable of talking again soon.

“... Yes,” Jon says, after a very long pause, like gathering his words was a Herculean effort. He tips his head back against the back of the tub and Martin’s hand that is still cradling him. “Thank you.” 

“Thank _you_ ,” Martin says, leaning in to kiss Jon softly. “You were… it was good.” There are so many things he still wants to try, but. Next time. They’ve got all the time in the world.

Jon relaxes into him as he takes the cup from the side of the tub and starts to slowly rinse the soap from Jon’s hair, and his touches are careful. Methodical. Making sure, above all else, that Jon is taken care of. It’s what his pet deserves.

When Jon tips his head back, he thinks again about a thick leather collar wrapped around his neck, showing the world who he belongs to. 

Soon, he thinks, reaching for the conditioner. He’ll get one soon.


End file.
